Tomorrow if it come
I (if I’m around)
will barricade our home
from the hullabalooing town
corking the walls of my room …
In a recent column, the New York Times’ Maureen Dowd wrote that “Dick Cheney certainly gives certainty a bad name.” She‘s right, but I’ve never liked it (or him) anyway. I often feel like a man on a tightrope, swaying from side to side. This isn’t due entirely to my deteriorating balance or a too happy happy hour: it’s a habit of mind. A friend of mine once began a sermon, “I wish to put in a good word for doubting Thomas, one of the disciples of Jesus.” Amen. After all, even back in Thomas’s day, a little uncertainty about the Resurrection wouldn’t have been unnatural.
Uncertainty, rather than being a bad thing, helps build a healthy optimism into our systems. Pessimists, like the heart-challenged Cheney, are certain: The End is Near! Obama’s from Kenya! Optimists are hopeful but not certain: Something good — a new idea, common sense, a birth certificate — may be just around the corner. A recent poll showed that Republicans are more certain of their views, Democrats more willing to compromise. (Hey, surprise!. )
One joy of writing poetry is that I can run with my first inspiration — my certainty! — writing freely without censorship, and then, after it cools off a bit, rewrite it with more thought and understanding, shaping the poem so that the original feeling clarifies, like a painting in a frame or a diamond in a ring. Contrary to what most young writers think, 97.5 percent of poems are improved by rewriting. “What about spontaneity?” a student shouted at a conference long ago in Sarasota, where poet John Ciardi had just recommended heavy rewriting. “Isn’t poetry about spontaneous feelings?”
Mr. Ciardi — who died on March 30 (1986), lift a glass — looked at him fondly and said, “Son, my poems don’t get spontaneous until the 14th draft.” First drafts seem perfect at birth, like a newborn babe; uncertainty raises its head the next day, when the poem starts peeing on the sheet. The rewriting can begin.
On the other end (so to speak), in real life we don’t know when we’ll die, so, as we age, uncertainty’s a plus. Scanning the obituaries in my college’s Alumni Review, I recall various vivid episodes spent with our lively friends. In the last issue, particularly, a cocktail-loving classmate was listed, and a wave of melancholy washed over me. But at the same time I was aware of twinges of gratitude. The mordant epigram of the Duc de la Rochefoucauld (1613-1680) floats up: In the misfortunes of even our best friends we always find something not altogether displeasing. I can’t repress a small smile — and herewith cheerfully give all my friends who outlast me permission to smile a bit, too, without guilt.
I’m at 80+ now, and happy about it, despite the stiffness walking downstairs each morning. If we knew for certain our exact death date, we’d be subtracting all our life — only 30 years left, only 15, 10 months, 2 days — Help! If I knew my life would end at 83, I’d be at -3 right now, counting down instead of up, like a short-timer in the Army. I’d be planning my last meal, thinking about taking up smoking again. Life already flows like a rushing river; if we knew when we’d die, it would be a waterfall, noisy and terrifying.
Uncertainty gives even the man stranded on a rock in an empty ocean, like William Golding’s nasty Pincher Martin, the ability to hope, If I can just last another day … Think of the soldiers trapped in the “Hanoi Hilton,” North Vietnam’s infamous prison, tapping out poetry in code on its cold walls. When caught doing this, they were severely punished — authorities have always hated poetry. They may not understand it, but they know it’s not the official line. They’re certain about that.
I suffer gladly
this foolish uncertainty
for which we’ve found no cure
I’m confused therefore I’m alive:
Still lie the dead sure
—both quotes from “Certitude,” in Zinc Fingers, by Peter Meinke (U. of Pittsburgh Press, 2000)
This article appears in Mar 28 – Apr 3, 2013.